Disobedience: A Novel

Summary

*NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE, STARRING RACHEL WEISZ AND RACHEL MCADAMS

*AUTHOR OF ONE OF PRESIDENT OBAMA’S FAVORITE READS OF 2017

When a young photographer living in New York learns that her estranged father, a well-respected rabbi, has died, she can no longer run away from the truth, and soon sets out for the Orthodox Jewish community in London where she grew up.

Back for the first time in years, Ronit can feel the disapproving eyes of the community. Especially those of her beloved cousin, Dovid, her father’s favorite student and now an admired rabbi himself, and Esti, who was once her only ally in youthful rebelliousness. Now Esti is married to Dovid, and Ronit is shocked by how different they both seem, and how much greater the gulf between them is.

But when old flames reignite and the shocking truth about Ronit and Esti’s relationship is revealed, the past and present converge in this award-winning and critically acclaimed novel about the universality of love and faith, and the strength and sacrifice it takes to fight for what you believe in—even when it means disobedience.

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Disobedience - Naomi Alderman

Chapter One

And on the Shabbat, the priests would sing a song for the future that is to come, for that day which will be entirely Shabbat and for the repose of eternal life.

Mishnah Tamid 7:4, recited during

the Saturday morning service

By the first Sabbath after the festival of Simchat Torah, Rav Krushka had grown so thin and pale that, the congregation muttered, the next world could be seen in the hollows of his eyes.

The Rav had brought them through the High Holy Days, had remained standing during the two-hour service at the end of the Yom Kippur fast, though more than once his eyes had rolled back as though he would faint. He had even danced joyfully with the scrolls at Simchat Torah, if only for a few minutes. But, now that those holy days were over, the vital energy had departed from him. On this sultry, overripe September day, with the windows closed and sweat beading on the brow of every member of the congregation, the Rav, leaning on the arm of his nephew Dovid, was wrapped in a woollen overcoat. His voice was faint. His hands shook.

The matter was clear. It had been clear for some time. For months his voice, once as rich as red kiddush wine, had been hoarse, sometimes cracking altogether into a harsh little cough or a deep fit of retching and choking. Still, it was hard to believe in a faint shadow on the lung. Who could see a shadow? What was a shadow? The congregation could not believe that Rav Krushka could succumb to a shadow—he from whom the light of Torah seemed to shine so brightly that they felt themselves illuminated by his presence.

Rumors had spread across the community, were passed at chance meetings in the street. A Harley Street specialist had told him all would be well if he took a month’s rest. A famous Rebbe had sent word that he and five hundred young Torah students recited the entire book of Psalms every day for Rav Krushka’s safe recovery. The Rav, it was said, had received a prophetic dream declaring that he would live to see laid the first stone of the Bais HaMikdash, the Holy Temple in Jerusalem.

And yet he grew more frail every day. His failing health became known across Hendon and farther afield. As is the way of things, congregants who once might have skipped a week in synagogue, or attended a different service, had become fervent in their devotions. Each week, more worshipers attended than the week before. The clumsy synagogue—originally merely two semidetached houses knocked together and hollowed out—was not designed for this quantity of people. The air became stale during services, the temperature even warmer, the scent almost fetid.

One or two members of the synagogue board suggested that perhaps they might arrange an alternative service to cater to the unusual numbers. Dr. Yitzchak Hartog, the president of the board, overruled them. These people had come to see the Rav, he declared, and see him they would.

So it was that on the first Shabbat after Simchat Torah, the synagogue was overfull, all members of the congregation fixing their attention, sad to say, more on the Rav himself than on the prayers they were addressing to their Maker. Throughout that morning, they watched him anxiously. It was true that Dovid was by his uncle’s side, holding the siddur for him, supporting him by his right elbow. But, one murmured to another, perhaps the presence of such a man would hinder rather than help his recovery? Dovid was a Rabbi, this much was admitted, but he was not a Rav. The distinction was subtle, for one may become a Rabbi simply through study and achievement, but the title Rav is given by a community to a beloved leader, a guiding light, a scholar of unsurpassed wisdom. Rav Krushka was all these things without doubt. But had Dovid ever spoken in public or given a magnificent d’var Torah, let alone written a book of inspiration and power, as the Rav had? No, no, and no. Dovid was unprepossessing to the sight: short, balding, a little overweight, but more than that, he had none of the Rav’s spirit, none of his fire. Not a single member of the congregation, down to the tiniest child, would address Dovid Kuperman as Rabbi. He was Dovid, or sometimes, simply, "that nephew of the Rav, that assistant." And as for his wife! It was understood that all was not well with Esti Kuperman, that there was some problem there, some trouble. But such matters fall under the name of lashon hara—an evil tongue—and should not even be whispered in the holy house of the Lord.

In any case, Dovid was agreed to be no fitting support for the Rav. The Rav should be surrounded by men of great Torah learning, who might study night and day, and thus avert the evil decree. A pity, said some, that the Rav had no son to learn in his name and thus merit him a longer life. A pity, too, said others, more quietly, that the Rav had no son to be Rav when he was gone. For who would take his place? These thoughts had circulated for months, becoming more distinct in the synagogue’s dry heat. And as the Rav’s energy had drained from him, Dovid, too, had become a little more bowed with every passing week, as though he felt the weight of their stares upon his shoulders, and the force of their disappointment crushing his chest. He rarely looked up during the service now, and said nothing, continuing to turn the pages of the siddur, focusing only on the words of prayer.

By midmorning, it was clear to all the men that the Rav was worse than they had seen him before. They bent their necks around the corners where fireplaces and built-in larders had once stood and shuffled their plastic chairs a little closer to him, to observe him more exactly, to will him on. Through the morning service of Shacharit, the room grew warmer and warmer, and each man became aware that, even through his suit trousers, he had begun to stick to his seat. The Rav bowed low during Modim, then straightened again, but they could see that his hand gripping the bench in front of him was white and trembled. And his face, though determined, faltered into a grimace with every movement.

Even the women, observing the service from the upper gallery built around three sides of the room, peering through the net curtain, could see that the Rav’s strength was almost gone. When the aron was opened, the Torah scrolls exhaled a fragrant cedar breath into the faces of the congregation, which seemed to rouse him, and he stood. But when the cabinet was closed his sitting seemed a surrender to gravity rather than a decided motion. He released the energy that had supported him and fell into his seat. By the time the Torah portion was half read, every member of the congregation was willing Rav Krushka to take each rasping, painful breath. If Dovid had not been there, the Rav would have slumped over in his place. Even the women could see that.

Esti Kuperman watched the service from the women’s gallery. Each week a place of honor was reserved for her, in the front row, by the net curtain. In truth, the front row was never occupied at all, even at such times as these, when every seat was needed. Women would stand at the back of the gallery, rather than take one of those front-row seats. Each week Esti sat alone, never bending her thin neck, not showing by any word or glance that she had noted the empty seats on either side of her. She took the position in the front row because it was expected. She was Dovid’s wife. Dovid sat next to the Rav. If the Rav’s wife had not passed on, Esti would have been at her side. When, God willing, they were blessed with children, they would accompany her. As it was, she sat alone.

Farther back in the women’s section nothing could be seen of the service at all. For the women in those seats only the melodies penetrated, as in the chambers of Heaven, whose doors open only to voices raised in song. Esti, though, could observe the crowns of the heads below, each covered by an oval of hat or decorated with a round circle of kippah. Over time the hats and kippot had become individual to her, each blotch of color representing a different personality. There was Hartog, the president of the board, solidly built and muscular, walking up and down even while the prayers continued, occasionally exchanging a word with another congregant. There was Levitsky, the synagogue treasurer, swaying in a nervous pecking motion as he prayed. There was Kirschbaum, one of the executive officers, leaning against the wall and constantly dozing off and waking with a jerk. She watched them come and go, ascend the steps to the bimah, and return to their places, where they’d stand and rock gently in place. She felt a strange sort of disconnection. At times, when she was staring down, the movements seemed like some game played on a checkerboard—round pieces advancing purposefully but without meaning. In the past she had often found herself becoming lulled into a trancelike state by the familiar melodies, the unchanging pattern of movement below, so that she would scarcely notice when the service was over and would be shocked to find the women around her already wishing her a Good Shabbos, the men below already drifting from view. Once or twice she had found herself standing in what seemed to be an empty synagogue, afraid to turn around for fear that some of the women might remain, behind her, whispering.

On this Shabbat, though, she restrained herself. Like the rest of the congregation, she sat when the Torah scrolls, clothed in regal velvet, were returned to the aron at the front. Like the rest, she waited patiently for the leader of the Shacharit service to step down from the bimah and the leader of the next service, Mussaf, to step up. Like the rest, she was puzzled when, after five minutes had passed, Mussaf had not yet started. She peered through the net curtain, trying to discern what was happening below. She blinked. On her husband’s arm, the hunched figure of the Rav, clad in his black overcoat, was making his way slowly to the bimah.

In earlier times, the Rav would have addressed them at this point in the service, taking the Torah portion they had just read and weaving it, with other sources, into an intricate and beautiful lesson. But it had been many months since he had spoken to them like that. This week, as for so many weeks now, a copy of one of his previous sermons had been left on each seat. The Rav was not well enough to speak. And yet, in the men’s section beneath her, he was ascending the three steps to the podium. A rustle of voices rose up around the synagogue and fell silent. The Rav would speak.

The Rav raised his arm, thin and pale in the sleeve of the coat. When he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly strong. He had been an orator all his life; the people did not need to strain to catch his words. I will speak, he said, only for a moment. I have not been well. With Hashem’s help, I will recover. There was a vigorous burst of nodding around the room; several people clapped and were swiftly quieted, for theater applause has no place in a synagogue.

Speech, he said. If the created world were a piece of music, speech would be its refrain, its recurring theme. In the Torah, we read that Hashem created the world through speech. He could have willed it into existence. We might read: ‘And God thought of light, and there was light.’ No. He could have hummed it. Or formed it from clay in His hands. Or breathed it out. Hashem, our King, the Holy One Blessed Be He, did none of these things. To create the world, He spoke. ‘And God said, let there be light, and there was light.’ Exactly as He spoke, so it was.

The Rav broke off, coughing violently, a sickly bubbling sound in his chest. Several of the men strained to move to him, but he waved them back. He supported himself on Dovid’s shoulder, gave three sharp coughs, and fell silent. He breathed heavily and continued.

The Torah itself. A book. Hashem could have given us a painting, or a sculpture, a forest, a creature, an idea in our minds to explain His world. But He gave us a book. Words.

He paused and looked around the hall, scanning the silent faces. When the pause had gone on just a little too long, the Rav raised his hand and banged it loudly on the lectern.

"What a great power the Almighty has given us! To speak, as He speaks! Astonishing! Of all the creatures on earth, only we can speak. What does this mean?"

He smiled faintly and looked around the room once more.

It means we have a hint of Hashem’s power. Our words are, in a sense, real. They can create worlds and destroy them. They have edges, like a knife. The Rav brought his arm around in a sweeping motion, as though wielding a scythe. He smiled. Of course, our power is not Hashem’s power. Let us not forget that, either. Our words are more than empty breath, but they are not Torah. Torah contains the world. Torah is the world. Do not forget, my children, that all of our words, all of our stories, can only, at best, amount to a commentary on a single verse of the Torah.

The Rav turned to Dovid and whispered a few words. Together, the two men walked down from the bimah and back to their seats. The congregation was silent. At last, gathering himself, the chazzan began to pray the Mussaf service.

The Rav’s words had clearly weighed with the chazzan leading the prayers, for the man seemed to be paying peculiar attention to each letter, each syllable of every word. He spoke slowly, but clearly and with power, as though he were hearing and appreciating the words for the first time. Mechalkel chayim b’chesed,he said. (He sustains all living things with kindness, He gives the dead life with abundant mercy.) The congregation responded in kind, their responses becoming louder and clearer until they were speaking with one great voice.

As the chazzan reached the kedushah, he began to sweat, his face was pale. Na’aritzecha v’Nakdishecha…he declared.

Kadosh, kadosh, kadosh,(Holy, holy holy is the Lord) the people responded, raising themselves onto the balls of their feet, many feeling a little light-headed, perhaps through the heat.

And it was at that moment, when all were reaching up on their tiptoes to the Almighty, that a crash resounded in the hall, as though one of the mighty cedars of Lebanon had fallen. The men turned and the women craned. The congregation saw Rav Krushka, lying on his side, by his seat. He let out a long moan, but there was no movement in him except his left leg, twitching against the wooden bench, the knocks sounding loud and hollow around the synagogue.

There was a moment of quiet and a sensation of pressure beating at the temples.

Hartog was the first to recover. He ran to the Rav, pushing Dovid to one side. He loosened the Rav’s tie and took his arm, shouting, Call an ambulance and bring blankets! The other men looked confused for a moment. The very words call an ambulance, uttered in the Rav’s synagogue, on the Sabbath, seemed unreal; it was as though they’d been asked for a slice of bacon, a pint of prawns. After a long moment, two of the young men started up and dashed toward the door, racing for the telephone.

High above, Esti Kuperman stood still, although some of the other women were already making their way downstairs to see what should be done.

Esti watched her husband take his uncle’s hand and pat it, as though to comfort the old man. She noticed that Dovid’s hair was thinner, seen from this angle, than she had thought. Some part of her noted, almost without intending to, that Hartog had already left the Rav’s side, leaving his care to the other medical members of the congregation. That he had pulled three or four men of the synagogue board to one side, that they were in conversation. She looked at her own bony fingers, curled around her siddur, the nails very white.

And for an instant, she felt heavy damask wings stirring the air against her face. The beating wings might have surrounded her, moving more slowly, more heavily, circling and ascending infinitely slowly, bearing a far greater burden than the soul of one old, tired man with a shadow on his lung. The breath had gone out of the room, and the beating wings were a pulse, growing fainter and fainter.

Esti felt exhausted, unable to move. Dovid raised his head to the women’s gallery, looked to her accustomed place, and shouted out, Esti! plaintive, frightened. Esti started back from the rail and turned to stumble to the door of the stairwell. She was faintly aware that some of the women were touching her, reaching out their arms to…stroke her? Support her? She wasn’t sure. She continued toward the exit thinking only that she must go now, that there would be something she should do.

And it was only when she was running down the stairs toward the men’s section that a thought awakened in her mind—a thought at once shocking and joyful, a thought of which she felt instantly ashamed. As she raced down the stairs, the rhythm of her steps echoed to the beat of her repeated thought: If this is so, then Ronit will be coming home. Ronit is coming home.

* * *

The night before, I dreamed about him. No, really. I knew him by his words. I dreamed about a huge room filled with books, floor to ceiling, the shelves stretching on and on farther and farther out, so that the harder I looked, the more that became visible at the limits of my sight. I realized that the books, and the words, were everything that was and everything that had ever been or would ever be. I started walking; my steps were silent, and when I looked down I saw that I was walking on words, that the walls and the ceiling and the tables and the lamps and the chairs were all words.

So I walked on, and I knew where I was going and I knew what I would find. I came to a long, wide table. Table, it said. I am a table. All that I have ever been or ever will be is a table. And on the table was a book. And the book was him. I knew him by his words. Truthfully, I would have known him if he’d been a lamp, or a pot plant, or a scale model of the Long Island Expressway. But, appropriately enough, he was a book. The words on the cover were simple, good words. I don’t remember what they were.

And, like you do in a dream, I knew I should open the book. I put out my hand and opened it and read the first line. As I read it, the words echoed around the library. They said, like God said to Abraham: You are my chosen one. Leave this land and go to another place which I shall show you!

Okay, so, I made that last part up. But the other stuff was genuine. I woke up with a headache, which I never get, but it was as if someone had dropped a dictionary on my skull during the night. I had to take a long, really hot shower to ease the words out of my brain and the tension out of my shoulders, and when I was done, of course then I was late for work, so I was walking, no, make that marching down Broadway in search of a cab, which you can only ever find when you don’t need one, when suddenly I heard a voice say, as though it’d spoken right in my ear:

Excuse me, are you Jewish?

And I stopped, almost jumped, because it was so close, and so unexpected. I mean, particularly in New York, where everyone’s Jewish anyway. So I turned to see who it was and lo, I had fallen for the oldest trick in the book, because there was a guy with a smart suit, a neatly trimmed beard, and a stack of flyers, clearly out to sign up some Jews for his one hundred percent top-quality religion.

Poor guy. Really. Because I was late, so in a bad mood to start off with. And I’d had that dream. Usually, I would have just walked on by. But some mornings you just want to fight with someone.

I said, I’m Jewish. Why?

Except, of course, I said it in a British accent, which I could see puzzled him straightaway. On the one hand, he wanted to say, Hey, you’re British! because he’s American, and they like to tell me that. But on the other hand, he had God whispering encouragingly in his ear, saying here, here is a woman whom you, my friend, can win for righteousness. The guy pulled himself together. Souls to save, worlds to conquer:

May I interest you in a free seminar on Jewish history?

Right. Of course. He was one of these guys. Not selling a new religion, but the old one; winning people back to the faith. Free seminars on Jewish history, Friday night dinners, a bit of Bible code thrown in. Well, I guess it works for people who’ve never had that experience. But that’s not me. Hell, I could be leading one of these things.

I said: No, thanks, I’m really busy right now.

And I was about to turn and walk away when he touched my sleeve, just brushed it with the palm of his hand, as though he wanted to feel the material of my coat, but it was enough to freak me out slightly. It made me almost long for a Lubavitch boy, whose sweat and desperation you can smell from three feet away, and who would never touch a woman. Anyway, my guy held out a leaflet and said:

We’re all very busy. These are fast-moving times. But our ancient heritage is worth making time for. Take a flyer. Our programs run all over the city; you can join anytime you like.

I took the flyer. And I glanced at it for a second, intending to walk on. And then I looked for a bit longer, just standing there. I had to read it over and over, trying to understand what I was looking at. A bright yellow sticker on the front read: "Monday night special seminar—Rabbi Tony will talk on Rav Krushka’s book, Day by Day, and how to apply its lessons in our lives. I mean, I knew he wrote a book, but when did it come over here? When did he produce lessons to help us in our lives? When did people who call themselves Rabbi Tony" start being interested?

Reviews

This is the story of Ronit, who left her home and reject her Orthodox Jewish upbringing. When her father dies many years after her self-imposed exile, she returns for his funeral and to claim her long-deceased mother's candlesticks. Once there, she encounters her former female lover, who is now married and living in compliance with the Orthodox lifestyle. I liked this story because of how Ronit dealt with coming face-to-face with her past. The characters were very well developed with a lot of subtlety in their thoughts and motivations. The glimpse the author provided into the Orthodox Jewish world was very interesting.

Read thru 75% of it. The story is something I can relate to as being queer and struggling within my own cultural and religious background, although I wished that the formatting of constant shifts of POV were abandoned as it proved disruptive to my reading of it in one sitting. Still, it’s intent is beautifully laid out as how one struggles with freeing and/or reconciling with your core identity. I can see why it is being made into a film because of shifting POVs and being an easy read in terms of establishing tone and becoming acquainted with some tenets of Orthodox Judaism.

A novel about two women, raised as Orthodox Jews and once girlhood lovers, now (since one married the other's cousin) struggling respectively with being a lesbian and with being an Orthodox Jew.

Usually I'm, at best, intensely frustrated with books about adulterous love triangles. Now this joins “The Princess of Cleves" to make the only two such books that, by contrast, I loved. (this probably has something to do with the fact that neither treats love as fated or impossible to resist or the most important consideration in the characters' lives.) And I believe it's the only book where I love all three main characters from beginning to end.

And the structure of it, mingling characters and culture and religion in one organic exploration of the theme (of which one example might be “Sometimes I think that my life is a punishment for wanting. And the wanting is a punishment too. But I think, if God wishes to punish me, so be it; that is His right. But it is my right to disobey.") is just wonderful.

I didn't really like Naomi Alderman's novel, Disobedience. I found it kind of annoying. But it has stayed with me for some time, near the surface, too. Maybe I don't like it because it hits oddly close to home.The characters bothered me. I believed in them; I just wanted to smack some sense into them. The books main character is an adult woman, travelling back to her childhood home in London after her father's death. Her father was the spiritual leader of an extremely conservative sect of orthodox Jews who live apart from the world as much as they can following very strict, very rigid, gender roles. She left home after her mother's death because she could not fit herself into the role of wife and mother which was the only option her father's teachings allowed here. But because she has come to the end of a not very good relationship, hit a set of promotion roadblocks at work, and wants a final chance to make peace with her childhood ghosts, she returns to London to sort out her father's things.Her father's community is less than thrilled. Two of her childhood friends now married to eachother, round out the set of major players in Disobedience. The two friends both once loved her, but have since come to terms with the desires their community forbids. By suppressing their true desires, and following the rules, they have both become respected members of the community.If you know what it is to walk away from family members who disapprove of you, maybe you can understand why I found these three so frustrating. In spite of all they'd been put through by the prejudice of their family and their community, they still seek their approval, they still seek their love. I understand that, but I also know that there comes a point when one must simply walk away. I wanted them all to just walk away.So Disobedience was a frustrating reading experience for me. It's also an excellent book, well-written with complex characters who address serious issues in an honest manner that does not produce neat endings. Disobedience is a book that has stayed with me a long time now. Maybe I did like it.

By concentrating on a group of Orthodox Jews in the real London neighborhood of Hendon, Alderman discusses Judaism, God, obedience, sexuality, communication, the love of learning, silence, inequality, abuse of power, the importance of ritual and the place of the person in community. She also has some really great descriptions of migraines. This book very deservedly won the Orange Prize for new writers.

This story reminded me of Naomi Ragen's Sotah, not that the stories were similar but in the lesson we all need to remember, SIFT. Just as Ronit, Esti, and Dovid must turn both inward and to each other to find what truly matters in their life so must we sift through our own stories. This was a wonderful read and one I would not hesitate to recommend.

This is a fascinating glimpse into the world of Orthodox Judaism. The main character returns to England when her father, a renown rabbi, dies after their long estrangement. I found the plot far less interesting than the practices of the Orthodox Jews and the origins of their long-held beliefs.

I enjoyed the glimpse into the Hasidic world in England the characters and their interactions did not ring true. The ending in particular did not seem plausible given the behavior of the characters to that point.

Disobedience, by Naomi Alderman, begins with Ronit Krushka returning to London's Hendon neighborhood to attend her father's funeral. Ronit was raised by her father, Rav Krushka, a well-respected rabbi and leader of an Orthodox Jewish community, but she rebelled and left the community for New York and life as a non-religious Jew. However, when Ronit returns for Rav Krushka's funeral, she must confront the demons of her past - not only the culture she finds suffocating, but also her relationship with Elsi, her best friend, and Dovid, her cousin. As the book progresses, Ronit and the modern way of life she represents becomes a threat to the well-being of the entire community of Orthodox Jews who followed her father so devotedly.This is Alderman's first book, and she does an excellent job of drawing the three main characters - Ronit, Elsi and Dovid. She also draws the reader into the world of Orthodox Judaism, showing how it's world runs in a sort of parallel to the rest of the West. In Disobedience, each chapter is divided into three parts: The first is a Torah lesson with some words about its meaning; the second tells the story in the third person, and is often about Elsi, Dovid or both; and the third is Ronit's story, told in the first person. I found the structure somewhat limiting as the story progressed. I think if Alderman had been a bit less rigid in sticking to the structure until about the last 2-3 chapters, the books could have had a bit more of a natural flow. Since I found Elsi to be the most interesting character, I found toward the end of the book that I wanted Alderman to spend less time with Ronit and more time with Elsi. And, I think the Ronit section in the last chapter should have been left out altogether - Alderman had a perfect ending in the last few paragraphs of the third-person section. However, overall I really enjoyed this book, picked up on a whim, and would recommend it as a quick read by a very good new author.

A Jewish woman in New York has to go home to her Orthodox Rabbi father's funeral and face all the people and torn feelings she left behind years before. She had rejected her father's faith and never married. It's a great story, each character is unique and well developed. The book was nominated for several awards- it won the Orange Prize New Writers Award, and was on the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award longlist and the Waverton Good Read Award longlist.Highly recommended. I look forward to her second book.

Disobedience begins with the death of the well-respected leader of an Orthodox Jewish synagogue in Hendon, England. The death of Rav Krushka sets off a chain of events which reveals the essence of one Orthodox Jewish community. Ronit Krushka, the estranged daughter of the Rav, is the perfect vehicle for this story, revealing the hypocrisy of those who eagerly pursue the righteousness God desires while at the same time failing to tamp down the sinful gossip and petty self-righteousness of their ingrown community. Additionally, the narrative takes a look at Ronit's cousin Rabbi Dovid Kuperman and his wife Esti who have eased into a marriage that is what neither expected and which provides happiness to neither. The Rav's death and the resulting return of Ronit to the community after a number of years absence unearth a number of issues that have lain dormant within the community and through which they must work in the course of the novel. Each chapter is artfully divided into three sections: one section for Ronit, one from Dovid and Esti, and one Godly anecdote that serves to shed light on the chapter's subject matter. With this format Alderman illuminates the community from God's perspective, from the inside, and from Ronit's slightly more deprecating point of view. Readers will laugh at Ronit's wit with regard to her former community and her eagerness to knock this backward community off its axis, even if that means telling entirely wacky untruthes. They will sympathize as Dovid struggles against a leadership role in a synagogue which he is coming to respect less and less, and with Esti as she strives to find a way to combat her "inappropriate" desires and to combat the gossip of the coummunity she never could escape. As each of the characters works to "fix" a group of people that are terribly stuck in their ways and to come to terms with those things that simply cannot be changed, this community and Orthodox Judaism come to life. In all, this is a triumphant story told with grace and sensitivity toward a community loved by God and its own citizens regardless of its imperfections. The narrative is richly rewarding as we watch the three main characters come to terms with the nature of their community and find themselves in the process.I loved Alderman's honest depiction of Orthodox Judaism. The community's rigorous efforts to follow God's commands to the letter are astonishing. The characters are unique and engaging. Each faces their own difficulty within the community and within their selves, and it is fascinating to watch them become agents of change within a community that seems unchangeable and come to various degrees of contentment both inside and outside of the community. Additionally, I loved the first part of each chapter which is written in an almost sermon-like format using "we." I found that I appreciated the insight that these few paragraphs in each chapter had into the nature of God and the clues they provided for the larger meaning of the chapters. I really appreciated the format and the inside and out look at the community it provided.